


Interstella Discovery

by inevitableentresol



Category: Daft Punk, Interstella 5555
Genre: 80's Music, Aliens, Behind the Scenes, Canonical Character Death, Don't Have to Know Canon, Fic Exchange, Happy Ending, M/M, Mind Control, Not RPF, Spaceships, Threats of Rape/Non-Con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-12-01
Packaged: 2018-02-05 12:00:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1817722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inevitableentresol/pseuds/inevitableentresol
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story roughly follows Interstella 5555, the feature length anime video for a Daft Punk album, but told from the viewpoint of a side character, and with some minor plot changes. Hopefully readers won't have to have seen the original video to follow this.</p>
<p>The date is 1984. Be prepared for bright colours and mobile phones the size of suitcases.</p>
<p>(Edit: now with e-book cover by plures.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. songs one, two, three, four, five out of fourteen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FlyingQuetzal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlyingQuetzal/gifts).



> Written for the prompt: I always thought that Record Head Honcho Guy, the one with the glasses, could strike up a thing with Octave after the latter is no longer a mind-controlled zombie. There was just something about Octave twitching on the floor and the Record Guy's taking the page about the memory disks and later being the one Octave wakes up to.
> 
> Note: The whole hour-long animated video for Interstella 5555 by Daft Punk [is available on YouTube.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h5-FJsYj1ck)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I played safe with a warning for _threats of rape/noncon_ , but it is only mentioned once in the first chapter, and no more after that.

_1: One More Time_

The first time Graeme saw the band was the same way that everyone else was to see them, only a few months later, when they were at the height of their fame all around the world.

No matter how many shows the band played afterwards, no matter how massive the stadiums, no matter how hard Graeme worked to spread them thin, the band couldn’t reach everyone who wanted a piece of them. They did play hundreds of concerts, before the shocking news spread. Then, all the global media could talk about was what had really gone on behind the scenes, without anyone knowing.

But earlier that year, before the revelations broke, the band exploded across the planet in a blaze of triumph. Even now, their legend shone on, and Graeme had been right there with them from the start of it. 

The moment when Graeme discovered them, had been on the small screen, in the corner of his office. He knew right away he was onto something. Himself, he had no musical ability. God knows, he’d tried. The only talent he had, if he had any, was to find the good stuff, be able to bring it to others and hope it moved them in the same way that it did him. This band was the real thing, he saw immediately. These were people whose talent he couldn’t even make sense of.

This year, Graeme had been struggling a bit on his own. France had been an unlooked for and surprise promotion – at least, promotion had been what they called it. Graeme thought perhaps it was something else. He’d been happy back in Dublin. What passed for popular music in France was so far beyond him: gravelly-throated chanson; incomprehensible, self-mocking Gallic rappers, electronica that Graeme couldn’t yet find the emotional connection to. Still, it excited him, as did his all exposure to the new sights and tastes around him.

Each night, Graeme worried he might already have missed the next new amazing killer sound. It might have already passed him by without his knowing. He’d been told he had the golden touch, though he knew it was meant half the time more as an insult than a compliment. A couple of his finds had gone big, internationally, including some whom he couldn’t have himself predicted – all he knew was that he liked their music.

Then his name had started to become too familiar in some circles, and you know what they said about familiarity. He’d ended up in Paris. The spotlight, and fighting for it, weren’t really his scene, anyway. It was that unexpected spark, that flash of discovery, the music that made everything stop hurting. Those were the moments that Graeme lived for. 

So now he was here, where he’d been told there were high hopes for him. Just because he’d been successful before, didn’t mean he was going to able to repeat his past lucky breaks. He couldn’t snap his fingers and make it happen one more time, just like that, and in an unknown territory.

Then Graeme saw the band’s promo, and it was like all the sparks of light he’d ever wanted were there, shining right in front of him. For the first time since he’d been uprooted from his home, he felt that long-lost connection.

_2: Aerodynamic_

The band’s manager was Earl de Darkwood: an imposing silver-haired gentleman with a penchant for capes, discomfiting smiles, and astonishingly, his own plush private jet, which he invited Graeme on. Graeme had seen wealth and excess in his time in the music industry, although not as much as outsiders might think. Most of the overkill was a just reaction to all those tours and the eternal grind of it.

There were three men and a woman in the as yet unnamed band. Graeme greeted them as he boarded the plane, in a small airfield he’d never heard of, outside Paris. Abruptly, he had no time for more conversation. A warning told him the flight was about to take off. 

Graeme took a seat next one of the members of the band - he recognised with a jolt the keyboard player and vocalist from the promo video. The plane stormed down the runway and lifted its nose. Graeme braced himself. The two band members who had replied to him as he’d come into the cabin had indeed spoken English, as de Darkwood had claimed for them. That was a relief. Graeme’s French was passable, but he was only a few months into using it practically. The band members’ accent, though, had been unusual. Graeme thought English wasn’t their first language, or perhaps they were a little rusty.

“Hey there.” Graeme smiled nervously at the man beside him. The plane had levelled off and his ears had popped. “So, I’m with R Company - your new record label? The name’s Graeme O’Fowne. I’ve been really looking forward to meeting all of you.”

The man turned to look at him. Graeme had a little excited wobble. Even with the distance of that promo video, and on the small screen, the magnetism of the band had been obvious. He usually was all about the music, but there was just something about this band, even before the first note started playing. Sitting next to the keyboard player now, Graeme found him even more charismatic in person. The man’s shirt was just this side of foppish, yet still managed to be effortless. His suit was the epitome of how a rock star should be, compared to Graeme’s too try-hard recent Paris purchase. On the man’s fingers were rings, silver and gold, and glittering. Nonetheless, they suited him. Without them, he’d somehow be less dressed than he needed to be. 

Growing up in rural Ireland, there hadn’t been any black people, and then only a few in Dublin. Even after his months in Paris, Graeme still had to remind himself it was a perfectly normal thing to be, and not madly exotic. Still, he couldn’t help but notice how handsome the keyboard player was, as well. It was a little unnerving. Really, the whole band couldn’t be any more perfect.

“I didn’t yet catch what your name was,” Graeme said. “Your manager didn’t say. Uh… so…”

They’d done the deal just with de Darkwood. Graeme never did that - signed up a band without meeting them, usually repeatedly. He’d just been blown away by the promo that much. His bravery still stunned him.

“So… your name… ” Graeme repeated.

The man looked at Graeme, and then right through him.

Oh God. Graeme had been too busy being overcome with how amazing this was, and especially the keyboard player – and yes, becoming a little flustered by how attractive he was, especially so near to him - that he hadn’t even noticed that behind the guy’s sunglasses, he was completely off his skull on something. Or - had Graeme got this all wrong?

“Octave,” de Darkwood put in, from his seat across the way. “Octave is his name.”

Graeme looked from one man to the other. 

The keyboard player was repeating the name, “Octave?” as if trying it on for size, with a small frown, and a dazed expression.

The guy didn’t even remember his own name – Christ, and was this situation really happening, within two minutes of meeting the band, finally? The guy was the most out of it you could be, possibly, the most clichéd, without actually being in a coma. 

Graeme’s heart sank. As “So… “ he said. “Uh, Octave, so you like flying, do you? Because, hah, you’ve going to do a lot of flying soon. You know, ha ha, to all these shows we’ve got set up for you.” 

Excruciating. He always talked too much like this when he was nervous. But he was hoping that he’d just got the wrong end of the stick. What he needed right now was for Octave to explain that he was just having a reaction to prescription medication, or had taken something because he was scared of flying, and that both of them could both handle this. Mostly, that Graeme hadn’t just made the stupidest decision of his life by signing a band unseen for the label.

Not that he had problems with artists indulging a little recreationally, as long as it wasn’t at the wrong times, or in excess. He’d hardly get through his job if he was freaked out by that sort of thing entirely. What he and the record company didn’t need was a band who were so fried they couldn’t get up on stage from the start of the process.

“So…” Graeme prompted again. “Uh...”

Octave didn’t say anything back to Graeme, never mind offer words of reassurance. He didn’t even bother to find a good reason to ignore Graeme, just stared at a patch of cabin wall in front of them both, in preference to replying.

Well, it wasn’t that Graeme needed the band all to be his best mates, or even for them to be squeaky clean and never to have touched anything stronger than water – although he still clung to the hope that there was still a simple explanation for this, one that he’d find out later.

Perhaps it was just some kind of pre-gig meditation technique, or something else that Graeme was behind the curve on. Or the guy might have taken something, sure, but he could handle it, and everything was still fine and dandy.

Graeme didn’t really understand drugs. But then, it was just a fact of life that everyone was cooler than him. That went ten times for the music business. Graeme had given it a try, but marijuana gave him heart palpitations, coke made him weepy, tobacco made him sick, and even coffee made him feel queasy for about a day afterwards. As for music, he couldn’t play three blind mice on the guitar without messing up the chord changes. These days he’d stopped even trying to fake it. He was a flat flounder in a sea of wild creatures, and he knew it. The bands he signed up hardly even breathed the same air as him.

The main thing to do now was not start too visibly panicking. He’d sold this incredibly impulsive move to his boss as both dynamic and prudent. It was a good decision, Graeme had promised, and he would take full responsibility. 

There were always teething trouble with any new signing. Graeme would sort everything. This band was going to be fantastic. Definitely.

_3: Digital Love_

Drugs or not, the band could really play. Their eyes may have been fogged and unseeing - and now that Graeme had noticed that with all of them he couldn’t unsee it - but then the lights went up, and suddenly, it was better than sex. At least, as the expression went.

Dig It All was a small, friendly venue where they knew Graeme and he’d arranged to start the band off with. The performance area was tacked onto the end of the bar, so Graeme was shoved only few feet away from the stage by the rest of the crowd, closest to the bass player in front, the girl called Stella.

Even before the first note started, when the band stepped up, the atmosphere went hushed and then electric. Graeme was a terrible, embarrassing dancer, but he couldn’t help but be relieved and excited and need to jig along a little just to work out his tension.

Just as he was really going for it, punching the air with a particularly vigorous action, Octave looked over in his direction. Just for an instant, they caught each other’s eye. Then Octave moved on, scanning impassively through the crowd without any sign he’d noticed. Graeme froze in place. He started again, but more awkwardly. The band might be offended if he just stopped dancing entirely, but it felt like he’d grown five extra arms and twenty legs. Even though the music was still running through his body, he was glad when that particular song was over.

After the gig, the band packed up backstage. They seemed rather muted, Graeme thought, for how well it had gone down.

A call came through on Graeme’s mobile. He took it out, and slung the battery pack over his shoulder as he found a quiet corner.

“Uh… Mr de Darkwood?” He called to the manager, afterwards. “There might be a problem… only a tiny one.”

“A problem?” the manager said. “What problem?”

“It’s just… it’s your contract,” Graeme said, nervously.

“What about the contract? If there’s something wrong with the contract, you must fix it immediately.” 

Dealing with de Darkwood was good, in that he was clear and direct. It was also bad, in that he intimidated Graeme until he wanted to run away back to his three big brothers, and give up the music business entirely. In the Dublin, at least they led up with a bit of banter before they tried to pummel you verbally.

“The contract…“ Graeme said. “I may have rushed it a bit. It seems… the lawyers say we have to… Uh, they can get it ready for us again next Tuesday. If that suits you.” All this pressing ahead, and the band could still slip away from him. PDQ Records in particular would snap this lot up in an instant, he was sure.

“Will this affect the schedule?” de Darkwood said. “I want these four in the studio by the morning of the 30th.”

“Well, that’s still going ahead. I’ve already booked the studio time and...”

“Then I see no problem, Mr O’Fowne. None at all.”

“Oh… okay,” Graeme said. “Right. Great, there’s no problem. We’ll sign again next week, all right? The band as well, this time - everyone?”

“As long as you release the band’s first single on the evening of the 30th.”

“The evening of the… what?”

“To be eligible for this year’s music awards, the track must be released by midnight on the 30th.”

“The very first day they’re in the studio? Uh. I don’t know… if that’s possible.”

“I need this single released by that date. Absolutely no later.”

“I’m sorry…” Graeme said. “Really. I just... All releases from new bands need to go through someone higher up before I...”

He shrunk under the full blast of the glare that was turned upon him.

“Mr O’Fowne, what do you want?” 

“Uh? Sorry? …do I want?”

“To ensure we have our single released on that date or before it. What it is it you want? Money, drugs… or perhaps…” De Darkwood’s eyes narrowed. “You were standing very close to Stella when she was performing tonight. She’s an attractive young lady, isn’t she?”

On stage, Stella had worn a short skirt, and had moved with a grace that was sinuous. Graeme could appreciate that she was indeed a joy to look at, and indeed extremely attractive, even if he wasn’t exactly into that option.

“Stella told me she likes you very much,” de Darkwood assured him.

Graeme was sure that Stella didn’t give a flying fig about him, much less had feelings in his direction. The only time he’d seen her animated so far was when the music had started, and she’d been playing her instrument. They’d exchanged a couple of hellos so far. Nothing more.

“Uh… that’s nice,” Graeme said. “But… uh… I don’t see how that relates to…”

“Is that what you want me to tell Stella? That you don’t find her attractive?” 

“No…. I mean. I’m sure Stella’s lovely. I’m just not into… “

Graeme stopped and swallowed. He’d never felt a need to hide his leanings. It wasn’t like the industry he was in was exactly a hundred percent straight. Artistic, was how his mother liked to put it. Ironic, seeing as Graeme couldn’t compose a song if his life depended on it. Still, while he wasn’t in the closet, he didn’t exactly shove it in people’s faces. Declaring himself to a man like de Darkwood wasn’t something he’d envisaged unless absolutely necessary.

If his years in Dublin had taught him anything, it had been the virtue of playing it safe. Perhaps even to exaggerate his naturally non-threatening appearance. The scene in Dublin was riddled with petty gangsters who thought they were hard nuts, yet none of them came close to the menace de Darkwood radiated. The man might not have openly threatened anything, but that didn’t mean Graeme didn’t find him intimidating.

“Ah, I see. My, my,” de Darkwood said. “Not just into… These modern fashions take some getting used to. You must forgive an old man such as myself.” He raised his eyebrows and looked over to the band. “Of course, Arpegius, our guitar player, is also a handsome gentleman. He might like to spend a little time in your company, if you’d prefer it.” 

Graeme blinked in shock. Was de Darkwood really suggesting… Graeme looked over at Arpegius, involuntarily. This was getting seriously creepy.

Arpegius, the band’s guitar player was, indeed, good-looking, with his expression of distant melancholy, poetically disarranged hair and eternal blue-tinted glasses. After Stella, he was going to be Graeme’s easiest sell to the public. Graeme hadn’t considered him in any other way up to that moment.

“Arpegius dearly wants his record to be out by the 30th,” de Darkwood said. “I’m sure you wouldn’t want to disappoint him - and he wouldn’t want to disappoint you, either.”

This must be a misunderstanding. Had to be. Whatever it was, it should be nipped in the bud, immediately. 

“All this is really not necessary, Mr de Darkwood. I-I’m sure I’ll do my best, whatever.”

“Your best?” De Darkwood’s vehement reaction to that made Graeme take a step back, for his own safety. “I don’t want your best. I want the single out on the 30th. What will it be? Cash then, pure and simple? It’s such a blunt instrument, but I’m prepared to wield whatever is necessary.”

“No, no, really…”

“As you kindly informed me earlier, in point of fact, the band hasn’t actually committed yet fully to join your little coterie. A change at this late date will throw our plans out. So tiresome. Still, I’m sure I can still find someone who will be more accommodating, if you refuse to play along with me.”

That was the Achilles heel, wasn’t it? Graeme had been planning to keep his mistake from his boss, and not to bother him until he’d fixed it. On the other hand, Graeme could use that very error to put the pressure on, to get what de Darkwood wanted. It would mean running roughshod a little over other artists’ schedules, which was not how Graeme liked to do things. He’d had a good relationship with his boss up to now, as well. Graeme valued things like that all the more since moving to a place where he literally knew nobody.

He worried his lower lip with his teeth. “Okay. I’m sure I can work this.”

“You guarantee the deadline?” de Darkwood demanded.

“Yes.” He might as well. In for an inch, in for a mile. “I guarantee it.”

“Make sure you play the game, Mr O’Fowne. I’m counting on you.”

With those enigmatic parting words, de Darkwood departed with a flap of the ridiculously dramatic cape he favoured.

Graeme sighed. Well, that had been weird. He turned to check if the band was ready to go to their hotel now. 

If he’d thought the band had looked out of it before, all of them, especially Octave, now looked just plain bone tired. That was something Graeme was highly familiar with. He relaxed slightly.

It had been an emotional day, all round. Perhaps what had had just happened with de Darkwood was the result of some kind of confusion. De Darkwood couldn’t possibly have been suggesting what Graeme thought he had. He’d heard tales of that sort of thing, and while they were amusing to listen to, no doubt they were mainly works of the imagination. Those sorts of things just didn’t happen in real life – or if they did, they did to others, not to Graeme.

Still, when the band were slumped around Graeme in the limousine, he couldn’t but help feel a little disturbed at the strange conclusion to the evening. 

The band’s performance had been fantastic. They’d played like a dream. That last part of the night had been disconcerting, but it wouldn’t be fair to take their manager’s oddities out on them.

Everything was progressing even better than he’d expected. Graeme smiled at the band, and put it behind him. Time for their next plans with to begin.

  
_4: Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger_

Graeme had guaranteed the band that their single would be out by the 30th.

With a huge breath of relief, the first tapes hit selected music shops late in the afternoon, hours within the deadline.

It was a faster turnaround than Graeme had ever heard of, even if the real work was still to follow. He arranged for gifts to be sent in acknowledgement to the band, to the technicians at the studio, to the cover designers, and to the special team at the factory. As soon as he’d sent the gifts, he thought he might have been a little ridiculous. Fruit baskets were what you sent to someone in hospital when they’d had an operation, not to grown men in the music industry.

He’d never have dreamt of sending mangoes to people back in Dublin. Being so far from home, and living in Paris, might somehow have only resulted in even less sophistication and coolness from him.

Their schedule for the promotional tour was finalised, and it was very nearly impossible. De Darkwood wanted miracles, resulting in the fact that even one missed connection would throw the whole thing out completely. You had to build in a little leeway; this was just crazy. Graeme was run ragged, making sure the band made it on time where they were supposed to be, and then speeding on ahead so he was there when they reached the next location. There was no time to be where the band was, these days. That was a long-forgotten luxury.

There was a ridiculous saying Graeme had heard: what didn’t kill you made you stronger. At this rate, Graeme would be invincible. He hardly got to see the band themselves, except briefly. He hoped they were happy, and was cheered every time he saw another stellar performance from them on television. They were eating up territories at a rate of gallops. 

At least, de Darkwood was pleased, and he’d made no more of those disturbing suggestions. 

Graeme put that episode out of his mind, at least. It had been their first day. It had probably been a case of new signing nerves. Anyway, Graeme was too busy to worry now, keeping up with the band’s progress.

He’d deal with future problems if and when they surfaced.

_5: Crescendolls_

“A voice coach?” Graeme asked. “What do the band need one of those for?”

“Arpegius is British,” de Darkwood told him. “Octave is from Brooklyn. Stella is from Tennessee, Baryl from Munich. They’ve lived in France for a few years, and unfortunately lost their accents, slightly. We just need to tweak these back in for them.”

Tweak their accents back? It seemed like a load of baloney. Were these guys even really from Britain, America and Germany to begin with? They never talked about it, and they all spoke in that same strange non-specific tired monotone. 

Graeme supposed he had to take it on face value. This why he usually handed over bands far earlier than this, to someone more experienced. He was never up to date with the newest gimmicks. Half the time, they felt so counter-intuitive.

The new voice coach wasn’t the only new addition to the band’s entourage. There were now two new bouncers, ten feet tall and each about as friendly as a slap to a cheerful head wound.

The Crescendolls was the name de Darkwood had decided on, just in time for the band’s debut single. The band was crawling with publicists, merchandisers, that voice coach, even action toy designer, each of whom only added to the pile that was Graeme’s headache. 

Although, that was another thing that was odd. Usually, new bands came already with their own preconceived band name, and they hardly ever wanted to stop at just the one of them. New signings were notorious for wanting to change names about every ten minutes. Apparently, not these guys. They sat quietly as de Darkwood had told them what they were called, and after that they didn’t much care what was put out there with their name and likeness, either. It was convenient, but simultaneously worrying. Why did Graeme feel like it was going to blow up in his face bigtime later?

Crescendolls wouldn’t have been Graeme’s first choice of name, either. Good thing he hadn’t been in charge of it. Obviously, he really did know nothing. 

Eleven days later, the debut single from the Crescendolls was number one in thirteen countries, including France, Japan, and America.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear FlyingQuetzal: I took your request as a pinch hit, because I just loved your prompt. Then this fic grew and grew on me. I'm sorry only the first chapter of it is up in time for the reveal.
> 
> There are another 4 chapters to come, and over 30,000 more words. I'll post as soon as I can, hopefully with a beta. Thanks for your patience. 
> 
> Dear everyone else: Also sorry. Thanks for reading the fic this far anyway.


	2. Fic cover image

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Image by [plures](http://plures.dreamwidth.org/130995.html).

  
  
Fic cover by [plures](http://plures.dreamwidth.org/).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm adding this as a separate chapter, because I tried to add it to the start of chapter one and it did strange things to the text format.


End file.
